that's mrs. mediocrity to you

stand tall and be proud of your roots.

everyone can use a hug once in awhile.

it’s nice to feel the breeze in your hair.

even after the worst of storms,
the sun will warm your face again.

offer shelter to those who need it.

with age comes character.

there is strength in numbers.

sometimes you have to bend
to keep from breaking.

branching out keeps things balanced.

when times are tough, dig down deep.

inhale the bad, exhale the good.

there are times to be dormant,
and there are times for growth.

mark each passing year in your heart.

we all have scars.

the moon will listen to your whispers.

if the path you are on gets blocked,
just grow in another direction.

especially one that sinks fangs
into the flesh above your knee
head shaking, throat growling, eyes

closed.

but you can stand before her

open,

knowing all the while that bare
and vulnerable share a cupboard,
always swapping dresses and

complaining of the cold.

.

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!

::

your next step,

but let your heart

be your guide.

::

(do you see the heart?)

This morning, I sat at my kitchen table with a journal and a pencil. Morning pages, so to speak, the result of a table that was cleared, sunlight glinting just so off the surface, and the time and space to savor a cup of tea, a blank page, the scratch of a pencil.

Outside my tiny kitchen window, the one I always wish was a big bay picture window but never will be, the birds were having their breakfast. A pair of cardinals sat together on a branch for a moment, winter lovers in shades of heart. Chickadees flitted in and out, always busy, always happy, I think the word flibbertigibbet was invented just for them. And as I sat there, writing, watching, writing, I heard the alarm caw of a crow. One of my crows, the three that come every morning for breakfast in the driveway, two on the ground, eating, one posing as lookout in the tree overhead.

Moments later, a large flock of starlings (isn’t it early for starlings?) landed in the hedgerow, chirping and fluttering and fidgeting and then moving on just as quickly as they arrived, in a great flurry of feather and branches and sunlight.

My naughty kitten was pretending to meander down the driveway.

All of this in just a few moments, but enough to make me get up to find my camera. And yes, of course, when I returned, there were no birds in sight. And so, more scratching, more tea, more listening. To a quiet that is never silent, the hum of the refrigerator behind me, the sound of pencil, and there, again, the caw of crow.

They had returned, my three musketeers, two down, one up, always waiting, watching, working. My sentinels of morning.

I snapped many shots of the watchman, but this was my favorite, the dropping down to earth, after deciding it was safe, to feast on seed.

A moment in time that happens a dozen times every day, but only once in all of eternity.

I love that.

she crawls on her belly
through a barbed-wire world
eating hope and fire
as they drip down to earth
from all kinds of secret places
in the sky

her life is lived
in moments of peace
and she lies on her belly
in a bed made of mud
as her fingers form clay
into bowls of tomorrow

she collects
heart-shaped stones
curves sticks
into smiles
and empties fossils
from her pockets
at sundown

her tears
mix with seed
to grow
night-blooming vines
in shades of lavender
and purple
to be braided
into bracelets
for the moon

she has words
as companions
and silver
for protection
and if you
put your ear
to the ground
you can listen
to her heart

beat

.

.

.

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!

::

your wings.

::

Somehow, despite the fact that I’ve barely left my house in the last 10 days, due to the tiny stitches I had just under my nose after I had a “spot” removed, I have managed to catch a cold. I think it may be more accurate to say that the cold has caught me.

And so, here I am, on the couch in the morning, reading poetry.

If my throat didn’t hurt so much, it would be a perfect day.

Just before Christmas, I stumbled across a poet I had never read before, Ruth Stone. My daughter bought me her book, What Love Comes To as a gift.

Oh my. Yesterday, I said that I want to live my life inside a poem.

Today, I’m going to live my life inside this book.

The Long Chill

The blankets scream to be folded.
After all it’s almost noon;
the sun’s pale powder glittering
and with no clear demarcation,
and too chill; as if when
the mammoths, strolling on the steppes
and consorting, paused, as usual,
as the first light dust of snow began to fall.

~Ruth Stone

::

it was no coincidence that you crossed my path
grey winged and sharp shinned
causing me to trip on my own shadow

you rose high in the sky, the color of winter
and i felt your power fall back to earth
in a tiny tumbleweed of promises.

my hope never meant as much as your survival
and no one has ever measured up to your glare
but she called you icarus in a threaded whisper

that still echoes through each moonlit night
in the season of cold and the year of empty
like the drip and song of icicles melting.

the fact that you soar is my forgiveness.

.

.

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!

::

sometimes

the things in life

we think

we should be

most afraid of

are not at all

the things

we need

to be

afraid of.

::

I decided, the other day, that 2012 will be the year of discarding.

Letting go, relinquishing, dropping, hurling, setting free, releasing.

Words and tchotchkes, things and thoughts, pounds and insecurities. Worries and doubts, stuff and clutter, possibilities and promises. There is so much that I don’t need.

I want to sit here in this room surrounded by nothing, I want the quiet to seep into my skin, I want to be enveloped in space.

I need more room. Elbow room, breathing room, leg room, room to grow, a room with a view, living room, my own room.

My life is cluttered with things I don’t need, things I must have, things that replace other things. I want less, more or less. I want fewer things and more words. Less stuff and more substance. I want to hold nothing in my hand and watch it turn into something.

I want to give away everything I have and expect nothing in return. I want to build a tower of hope and climb all the way to the top. I want to let my hair down and run laughing through the forest. I want to live off the land and inhale the morning. I want to sing the sun to bed at night and whisper rhymes to the stars. I want to wrap my arms around the ocean.

I want nothing. All of it.

I want to find an empty place to curl into, a bowl, a pail, a vessel, something to float away in. I want to feel the air rushing at my face as I soar through clouds of forgiveness. I want to lie on my back in a meadow alone and let butterflies land on my nose.

I want to be still.

I want to be.

Still.